A Tyrant’s Whim
By Patrick M. Tracy
“Remind me of the man’s name,” the tyrant said. It was noon, and he had yet to fully embrace the day. He brought a cup to his lips, sipping spice tea mixed with wine. A naked servant woman mopped his brow with a cool towel.
His functionary, Chalbard, squinted at the scroll in his hands. The man’s eyes were failing. It would be a shame to have to replace him, but the time drew nigh.
“Meloe Jas, Majesty,” Chalbard informed at last. “He’s to be consumed by tigers.”
The tyrant sighed. “Not today.”
“Very good, Majesty. I’ll inform the executioners.”